The Ruination of Los Santos
by InfamousSharo
Summary: Los Santos, once a sprawling metropolis, succumbs to an invasion it was never prepared for. It becomes the mission for a former bank robber in the midst of a midlife crisis, a street-wise reluctant gangbanger, and a meth-dependant psychopath to uncover the truth of what's happening, while trying to survive the chaos along the way. Spin off of The End of Liberty
1. One

**Greetings, fellow readers and writers of fanfiction!**

The following story is a spin off of The End of Liberty, but you don't have to go read it(although I'd appreciate it if you did) to understand this one. Though I usually have a main OC in my stories, this story will not have one. I'm sure that'll make a few of you happy, and you know who you are ;) However, there will be minor OCs and a few of the minor canon characters.

Some things you should know:

* Timeline: The events of this story take place in 2012, so the events of GTA V have NOT taken place.  
* Point of View: It'll be written in third-person, but I'm taking a George Martin approach, each chapter showing what's happening from Michael, Franklin, and Trevor's end.  
* Updates: They'll be as unpredictable as life. I currently got another story going, so I'll be switching between the two.

Disclaimer thingy: I don't own shit, except the plot and those minor OCs I mentioned. The rest belongs to Rockstar.

Please take a moment to review. I love to hear what you readers think and constructive criticism is always welcome.

Enjoy.

 **Michael**

* * *

 _"This is the National Emergency Alert System. We interrupt normal programming at the request of the White House. At this time, all cities are under immediate threat of terrorist attack. All citizens must seek shelter immediately. Do not venture outdoors until given the all clear by the authorities or the NEAS. Stay tuned for a message from the President of the United States or his representative, and for further news and information."_

The radio had been playing that emergency message for the past three days. There had been no follow up from the President or his representative, nor had there been any further developments about what the hell was going on.

Michael De Santa suspected there never would be. For three days there had been nothing but noise from outside, terrible sounds that were deafening even in the reinforced basement, where he and his family had taken shelter; the unmistakeable rattle and pops of gunfire, bangs and booms that had shaken the house on its foundations, shattered windows and God only knew what else. At one point something gargantuan had past over the mansion, screeching like a failing jet engine. The noise had been accompanied by other nerve-rending sounds, undoubtedly the crumbling and collapse of the roof. The entire world seemed to quake and small aftershocks followed long after the chaotic noise had died out. As terrible as all that had been, nothing had shattered the fragile composure of the mansion's residents like the screams had; the shrieks of death, collective screams of panic and terror and horror, and the authoritative shouts of command.

It was like World War Three had been waged in the City of Saints.

Michael, being a former bank robber, didn't scare easily, but he'd lost count of how many times he'd almost shit his pants in the past three days. There were moments when he was certain the next explosion was going to be the end.

It was the end, but not for him and his family.

The deafening booms and bangs had ceased early that morning, but the all clear had still not been given by the NEAS. That had been nine hours ago, according to the gold watch on Michael's wrist, and he was growing impatient with sitting around in the basement.

The somewhat overweight man cast a glance around the cramped space, lit with the harsh blue glow of the battery-operated lantern hanging from a hook in the ceiling. His family huddled together on a cot, his wife between his grown son and daughter, a comforting arm around each. It was a rare sight, this togetherness without the usual screaming fits. Michael loved his family...God, he loved them, but they weren't a _normal_ family; they hadn't been a normal family since leaving North Yankton. Life hadn't been any easier there, far from it, but at least they had been somewhat happy. Sometimes he wondered what would have happened if he'd never made that deal with Dave Norton, if they'd never left home. Perhaps his marriage never would've deteriorated, perhaps his children would've grown to respect him and not resent him as they did now. Perhaps he wouldn't have become depressed with the normal life he'd given himself and his family, stuck in a clichéd midlife crisis. He had only tried to do the right thing for himself and the ones he loved.

 _Lot of fucking good that did._ With a sigh, Michael turned to the radio, where it sat on a folding table, and gave it a look of contempt before switching it off. He was tired of listening to that emergency message loop and loop like a broken record. It was like it was mocking them.

"Keep it on," his wife Amanda insisted. "They could be giving us the all clear soon."

He didn't want to scare her or the kids, but he couldn't stand hearing that pointless message anymore, either. "It's been nine hours since shit out there settled down. If they were going to give us the all clear, they would've done it already."

Amanda's face paled. "It sounded like bombs going off out there. What if the cops...or the army...what if they all got killed?"

"Fucking terrorists!" Tracey wailed, clinging to her mother. "Why do they hate us so much? Why doesn't the army just like go to Pakistan or wherever and bomb them all to hell?"

Jimmy groaned and rolled his eyes. "You're a fucking idiot, Tracey. Have you even been paying attention to what's been going on in the past decade? The war in Iraq? Afghanistan? What the fuck do you think they're doing over there, picking flowers?"

Tracey scowled at him and tried to kick him in the leg. "Shut the fuck up, Jimmy! I was talking to Daddy, not you!"

"Knock that shit off, both of you!" Michael scolded. "Fighting isn't gonna make this situation any easier. You're all scared, I get that. So am I. But we need to keep our heads." He knew it was pointless, that it wouldn't last; telling his children not to fight was like telling the sun not to rise, but as long as it got them to stop bickering for the time being, he could live with that.

"What do we do?" Amanda asked, running a soothing hand through her daughter's blonde hair. "Do we stay down here, wait till someone comes to find us?"

"Come on, Mom, nobody's coming for us. They're all fucking dead," Jimmy responded.

At that, the two women looked petrified. Tracey let out a small whimper.

"Nice, James," Michael growled. "Let's scare your mother and sister more than they already fucking are!"

The younger De Santa gave his father a helpless look. "What? It's _true_ and you fucking know it! We should just go check shit out ourselves."

Micheal actually considered this. "You know what? For once, you're right. _I'll_ go check shit out. The three of you stay down here." He got perhaps two steps to the steel, reinforced basement door that had kept them safe, then felt a hand wrap tightly around his wrist. He turned around to see the concerned face of his wife.

"You are _not_ going out there, Michael James Townley."

His brows rose at her speaking to him like he was one of their misbehaving children. The whole 'full name' thing wasn't going to work on him. He put his hands on her shoulders, giving them a reassuring squeeze. "It's fine, Mandy. I'm gonna have a quick look. I'll be back before you know it."

Amanda's concerned look turned stern. "Five minutes. Promise me, Michael."

Smiling, he held up two fingers pressed together. "Scout's honor."

She scoffed. "You were never a Scout."

"Okay, okay," Michael laughed. "I _promise_. Five minutes." He gave her a quick peck on the forehead, then turned back to the basement door.

Michael struggled to get it open, as something was weighing against it from the other side. He had to toss his own weight against the door numerous times before whatever was obstructing it finally gave. He stepped out, quickly closing the door behind him, not wanting his family to see what he was seeing; they would eventually, he knew, but he could delay it for now.

Michael cringed at the sight of his home, even though it wasn't half as bad as he thought it had been. Sometimes when you couldn't see what was making the terrible noise, your mind conjured up the absolute worst; a distinct creak in the middle of the night was a serial killer coming for you, or, in this case, the loud banging and crashing was his entire mansion falling to the ground.

The walls were still standing, but a gaping path split through the roof from one side to the other, daylight spilling through it. It was like something huge had dragged through it. He suspected it might have actually been a jet, given the powerful screeching he'd heard a few days ago; perhaps the tip of a wing had struck through the roof.

The living room was a disaster. His sixty-two inch film screen lay shredded among the bits of roof and broken furniture, as well as some of the book cases which had once been full of books, family photos, expensive trinkets and knick-knacks, and...

A lump grew in his throat. There it was, the shiny, broken pieces of DVDs that had once been his old movie collection, one he had been amassing for some ten years.

Michael had to turn away, and reminded himself that he had closer things to his heart that _had_ survived all this, and were waiting for him in the basement. He made a promise he had best keep, but first he needed to take a peek outside and assess the situation.

Michael could still hear screaming and gunfire as he stepped carefully through the debris toward the front double doors, though the sounds seemed far off, perhaps coming from several blocks over. One door was still standing, though the colored glass was shattered and the wooden frame splintered in places. The other had been blown right off the hinges. To where, he had no idea. He stepped through the opening and stopped dead in his tracks on the small porch, his jaw dropping open.

The front yard was littered with bits of roofing, broken glass, and chunks of bricks from the destroyed fence around the property. An old oak tree had uprooted and crashed down on his fifty grand sedan. His wife's convertible hadn't been spared, either. The back end of it was crushed under the collapsed carport.

He could smell smoke and the sickening stench of gasoline as he weaved his way around the fallen tree. The iron fence gate lay in the entrance to the driveway, all twisted up, and as Michael approached the street, he could see more debris covering the asphalt.

" _Fuck_."

Rockford Hills was a disaster area. Some of the sprawling mansions of the rich and famous had been resorted to rubble, smoke rising from the remnants. On the block there was more debris, felled street lamps, and smashed up sports cars. Further south, at the heart of the city, Micheal saw the proof that it really was as bad as he'd thought. "Jesus fucking Christ..."

Downtown Los Santos was in ruins. The Maze Bank tower that had once hovered over the City of Saints was half destroyed, as if God had reached down and ripped the upper-most portion of it clean off. Large plumes of dark smoke snaked from the remains toward the heavens. The matching FIB and IAA skyscrapers had suffered the same fate, and were also smoking like chimneys. Smaller fingers of smoke rose up around the felled structures, likely from damaged buildings lower to the ground. It darkened the sky like a blanket of storm clouds, where not a bird nor a plane flew.

He was reminded of this documentary he'd watched a while back, about the terrorist attacks in Liberty City twelve years ago. There'd been an interview with a survivor, the man describing the event as 'a terrifying journey through Hell, barely coming out on the other side'. Michael thought 'Hell' was a fitting description for what he was looking at. Only evil could've done this. The real question in his mind, the one he desperately needed an answer to, was whether or not that evil was still out there. Had the ones who'd perpetrated this moved on after doing their damage, or were they still out there to kill off who was left? _Searching_ for the survivors?

He didn't know, perhaps he _couldn't_ know, but what he _did_ know was he needed to get his family out of this broken city while he still could. But how? And where? And if the people that had done this were still out there, how was he going to protect his family? He had no guns, no transportation, no fucking idea where to go...

His concentration on the matter broke when he heard a clatter from somewhere nearby, followed by a loud groan. Michael's head jerked north, where the sounds came from. Up in the Vinewood Hills, perhaps a few blocks over, he saw the origin of the overwhelming reek of gasoline. The tail end of a fighter jet protruded from the remnants of a mansion that had once sat along the hillside, thick, dark pillars of smoke rising from the wreckage.

Then he heard the groan again.

Though Michael's conscience had taken quite the beating throughout his former criminal career, some shred of it still clung to him, and it was that shred that led him to investigate the groan, wondering if some poor soul was trapped helplessly under a pile of rubble somewhere. The person would get no help from the authorities, as it seemed they were no longer around. Michael hadn't heard a single siren since coming outside, and in a city that had been more or less leveled, sirens he should have heard. There should have been some kind of police and EMT presence on the streets. Maybe Amanda had been right. Maybe the entire police force had been wiped out. Maybe whoever had done this had planned it out that way; take out the police first and no one could stop them from doing their worst damage. But what of the army? Surely the perpetrators couldn't have taken out the army too.

The former bank robber moved around the debris and up the street, homing in on the groaning. Cresting the hill at the top and coming around the corner, Michael saw his neighbor Carl March, some fancy pants lawyer, kneeling over another man who wasn't moving. Carl was facing away from him, so Michael stopped where he was and addressed him, not wanting to startle the man and have him draw a weapon on him or something.

"Carl, everything okay? You need a hand?"

Carl stilled, every muscle in his body tensing. The man twisted a little and turned his head around slowly. Before it even got fully around, Michael knew something was wrong with him; it was in his body language. His instinct was yelling at him to get the hell out of there. Then he saw Carl's eyes and face and horror rooted him to the ground. Red, the irises of his eyes were red like the blood that stained the man's mouth and dribbled over his chin. Red like the fires of Hell. Red...unnatural... _subhuman_. His face was ashen, edging on a light gray, and a network of tiny blue veins protruded from under his flesh. Carl's lack of humanity was made all the more apparent by the severed arm clutched in his hands. The appendage appeared undamaged apart from the gory stump. Why Carl's mouth was bloody, why his eyes were red, why he was holding that severed arm as if it were a prize, Michael didn't even want to begin to guess, because this was impossible, beyond ludicrous. It couldn't be happening; _it i_ _ _s__ _n't_ , he tried to tell himself. Any minute now, he would wake up to find that he'd fallen asleep on the couch again, the credits to some vintage movie rolling across his film screen, and he would realize it was just some bizarre nightmare.

But Michael wasn't waking up, and the thing that had once been Carl March, the fancy pants lawyer, rose to its feet, tossing aside the severed appendage. His bloody face twisted in fury and with a loud, hellish bellow, Carl charged at Michael.

In survival mode, the ex-bank robber backpedaled with all haste, eyes wide, heart leaping for his throat. His foot trod on some rubble, twisting his ankle. Michael fell back, banging an elbow on something hard. "Shit!" Pain jolted up his arm as he fumbled around for something, _anything_ he would harness as a weapon.

Carl fell upon him and Michael threw up his throbbing arm, wedging it against the man's throat to keep him back. "Get the fuck off me, asshole!"

Carl was strong, too strong for such a skinny man. He pressed forward against Michael's arm, trapping it between them as his teeth snapped itches from Michael's face. _What the fuck? What the fuck? What the_ fuck _?_

Michael's free hand still groped around, blindly searching for a weapon. His fingers touched something solid, clutched it. His brain never registered what it was, only that he should use it.

He smashed the object into the side of Carl's head, not once but three times. Michael felt the warm spatter of blood on his face from the gash he'd made on Carl's head.

Despite the injury, the furious, red-eyed man was far from done.

His hands tore at Michael in a mindless frenzy, eventually clutching his throat, fingers digging in to crush his windpipe.

Michael gripped his makeshift weapon with both hands and slammed it forward into the lawyer's head over and over and over until his arms grew weak from the exertion. Even still, it hardly budged Carl. Blood dribbled down over his eyes and face, his grip on Michael's throat tightening. Michael continued to try to fight the man off, but his attacks had grown too weak to do any more damage.

 _How?_ he wondered as he choked for air and banged the chunk of stone he held into the man's head again. His vision grew hazy and dim, and he thought of Amanda, of Tracey and Jimmy. _We should've stayed in North Yankton. God, I'm sorry. I'm sorry...I'm-_

 _He heard something then, a loud, unmistakable sound. A gunshot._

Through his hazy vision, Michael saw Carl's head jerk in a spray of blood. The lawyer fell away to the side and Michael gasped, his lungs expanding painfully in his chest cavity as oxygen filled them.

"Woo! Got that motherfucker!" came an excited, masculine voice.

Michael pushed himself up on trembling arms as two men and a large Rottweiler approached. The men were both African-American, dressed in baggy clothes, most of it black with bits of green. One was tall and lanky, wearing a black ball cap on his head. The other was of average height, built a bit more sturdier and appeared younger than his friend. The drooling dog was on a chain leash held by the taller guy, and it stretched its head forward to give Michael a curious sniff before its owner gave the chain a little yank.

The younger man held a hand out to Michael, an offer to help him to his feet. "You okay, man?"

Michael accepted the aid. "I am now," he answered as he was pulled up. "Thanks." He looked down at dead Carl, where he lay in a pool of blood. "What the _fuck_ is going on?"

"It's the motherfuckin' zombie apocalypse, dude!" the taller guy exclaimed.

Michael stared at him, mouth open, brows raised. He'd heard some crazy shit in his time, and this definitely made his top ten list. "... _What_? What the hell are you talking about?"

The younger guy rolled his eyes. "Don't listen to this crazy-ass fool. He seen Vinewood Zombie too many times."

"I know what I seen, nigga, and I seen motherfuckers _eatin'_ motherfuckers out there!"

The young guy waved him off, dismissively. "Go on with that shit, man. I seen what you seen, and they wasn't eating each other."

"What was they doing then, huh? We seen that one crazy motherfucker tear some other motherfucker's throat out...with his motherfuckin' _teeth_ , nigga!"

"He didn't _eat_ him, though," the man argued. "He was like...shit, I don't fuckin' know, sucking the dude's blood or something."

Michael put his hands up. "Wait. Back up. You both saw this? More than once?"

Both men nodded in unison.

"Niggas gone fuckin' crazy out there!" the tall one said. "They everywhere, man, like the whole fuckin' city's crawlin' with these motherfuckers."

"We tried going downtown," the younger added. "But shit's fucked up bad there, man. Crowds of these crazy motherfuckers. It's a fuckin' death trap."

"What about the cops?" Michael asked. "Why ain't they doing anything about this shit?"

"What cops, man? They all gone mad like everybody else, or been killed. Them army dudes, too. Seen some tanks downtown, but ain't no one manning those motherfuckers. Some was destroyed, like them motherfuckers turned on each other."

"Jesus," Michael breathed. " _How_? What was this, some kind of fucking biological attack?"

The younger man shrugged. "We don't know anymore than you do. We're just trying to get the fuck out of here before we end up like the rest of those crazy-ass motherfuckers, or worse. If it's like germ warfare or some shit, who knows what the fuck they got, or if it's contagious."

"It was able to spread among the populace within three days. Whatever the fuck it is, it's serious shit."

"Nah, man. I mean, it _is_ serious shit, but it didn't spread in three days. It spread in _one_. Who you think the cops and army were trying to fight off? The fuckin' _people_. Man, I don't even think there were any fuckin' terrorists. I mean, I ain't seen anyone but them crazy assholes. You the first normal dude we come across."

"We wasn't gonna help you at first," the other guy added. "Thought you was one of _them_ till you told that motherfucker to get off. Them crazy ass niggas don't say shit, or if they do, it's just jibberish."

Michael looked down at Carl's corpse again, remembering the way the man had sounded just before he'd attacked him. That hellish, inhuman scream. _None of this makes any goddamn sense. What the hell is going on?_ He shook his head, letting out a heavy sigh as he ran a hand through his hair. "How were you two planning on getting out of here? And where the hell are you going to go?"

"We gonna take our chances outside the city," the young one answered. "Paleto Bay or somewhere. All we can do. Gotta do it on foot, though, 'cause there ain't no way we getting a car over all the shit on the streets."

"Big fucking risk you two are taking."

The man shrugged. "Too risky to stay. We're heavy, you seen that. Those crazy motherfuckers are hard to kill. Only thing that's worked for us is lead to the head."

"Hey, you wouldn't happen to have a spare gun on you, would you?" Michael asked.

The taller man laughed. "Listen to this old white dude...you even know how to use a gun, _P_ _ops_?"

Michael frowned, offended. "Listen, you little punk, I may be old, but I can blow a tire on a moving vehicle from sixty-five yards away with a fucking pistol."

The man put his hands up, grinning. "We got a badass over here!"

His friend rolled his eyes. "Man, ignore this fool. Look, we ain't got a spare, but like...shit, I think we'd all have a better chance if we stuck together, you know?"

Michael shook his head. "I'm not alone; I have a family. If these...people are crawling all over the city, a larger group will attract more attention. Smaller group would get out easier."

"Most of those crazy assholes are downtown. We go up through the Vinewood Hills, we ain't gonna come across many. Me and this fool can dispatch them easy enough if we do. There ain't no reason to stay here, man. There's nothing left, but maybe we'll find help or something outside the city, or at least a safer place."

Michael considered this. It was a plan, though not the best. Still, he needed to get his family to some kind of safety and he obviously was not going to find that in Los Santos. But he couldn't make this decision alone, either, not like he had done with moving away from North Yankton. His family resented him enough for that. "I need to talk this over with the wife and kids. I guess you can come with me if you want."

"You got some food at the crib?" the tall man asked. "'Cause this nigga's famished."

Michael shrugged. "If the fridge is still intact, raid it at your own risk. I'm sure most the food is spoiled by now with no electricity. But before we go, how about some names?"

"I'm Lamar," the tall one answered, then he swung a hand into his friend's chest. "This fat chump's Franklin."

"Man, I ain't fat. It only seems that way compared your stick-skinny ass."

"Whatever you say, fool. Oh, yeah, the little homie here's Chop." Lamar reached down and gave the Rottweiler a good scruff on the neck. Chop's little stump of a tail wiggled in response, his long, pink, drooling tongue lolling from his mouth.

"I'm Michael. Lamar, Franklin..." He glanced down at the dog. "Chop. Follow me, I don't live far." And as a dry afterthought, he added, "And try to excuse the mess."


	2. Two

**Franklin**

* * *

Lamar secured Chop's chain lead to the felled tree on the mansion's property, claiming the canine would serve as an alarm system. Though the Rottweiler was not well trained, his inherent ability to hear and sniff out trouble long before any human could had saved Lamar and Franklin's lives numerous times during their trek through the ruined city. Chop's only other useful trait was his ability to attack on command, and though the bites he'd inflicted on a couple of the crazy people they couldn't avoid had never been fatal or debilitating, it had at least provided a short distraction, leaving the two men to dispatch them from a safer distance. Distance was key. Once those lunatics got too close, it was usually game over.

 _Old dude was lucky we were around_ , Franklin thought, glancing at the heavy set, salt-and-pepper haired man who guided them toward the crippled entrance of his wrecked mansion. Others hadn't been so lucky, Franklin's own aunt among them. He would never get that last image of her out of his mind; the way she came barreling at him the moment he'd entered the house, screaming incoherently, her face ashen and veined, and her eyes red as blood. He'd stood there, frozen in horror for what, at the time, had felt like forever, though in actuality it had to have been only a few seconds. Only when she had grabbed him, growling like some savage animal, did Franklin snap out of his stunned dismay. He'd fended her off as long as he could without a weapon. Lamar had been the one to put her down, arriving in the nick of time after he'd retrieved Chop and some guns from his house. Had he not, Franklin knew he wouldn't be alive now. The man acted a fool and razzed him more often than not, but when shit got real, he had his head in the game and always had his friend's back. It couldn't have been easy for him, either; Franklin knew Lamar had always had a thing for his Aunt Denise, despite the massive age gap.

She wasn't the only one who'd succumbed to whatever madness had spread among the populace. Most of the members of the street gang Franklin reluctantly took part in with Lamar had gone nuts as well. After the incident with his aunt, they had tried, with the aid of a few other gang members, to safeguard Forum Drive, but not even the harsh realities of the hood life could've prepared them for what they would face. Grossly outnumbered, their gang brothers, tough, hardened men they'd grown up with for the most part, had met horrible, screaming deaths on the street. Franklin and Lamar were the only ones to survive that short-lived battle, and only because Franklin had insisted they run when the tide had turned against them. Lamar had wanted to stay and fight, but Franklin had gotten through to him in the end. It just made no fucking sense to fight a losing battle, to die for nothing. Fleeing had shamed his friend, but as far as Franklin was concerned, he saw no dishonor in what they'd done. Doing what one must to survive was simply human nature.

As the trio entered the residence, Franklin looked around at the destroyed interior, then up at the streak of jagged sunlight pouring in through the damaged roof. "Damn, man. What the fuck did that?"

Michael glanced up and shrugged a shoulder. "Jet, probably; it sure as hell _sounded_ like one. Might've winged it. Anyway..." He looked at the two men, putting on a business-like expression. "Listen, I don't know who either one of you _really_ are, sure as hell don't know if I can trust you, but I gotta go out on a limb here. It's a rare fucking thing when someone helps you out of the kindness of their heart. If that's why you did it, fine. If not, if you two try _anything_...you'll fucking regret it. Got it?"

Lamar scowled, offended. "Yeah, yeah, we get it. We niggas, so 'course we gonna loot your fancy, broken shit and rape your white-collar wife." He looked at Franklin, frowning. "Fuck this shit, FC. Shoulda let that freak eat his racist motherfuckin' ass. Let's bounce."

 _Ah, shit, here we go..._ Franklin thought, rolling his eyes. "Come on, dog-"

"Hey," Michael cut him off, his sharp words directed at Lamar. "Why don't you chill the fuck out, all right?" He threw his arms out wide. " _Look_ at the fucking situation; an entire city destroyed, maniac killers on the loose, and no fucking help in sight. You can't honestly think shit like this brings out the good in people when we're all fucking each other over on a normal day. I got a family I gotta look out for, so yeah, I'm gonna assume the worst out of anyone, regardless of what fucking race they are."

"Look," Franklin spoke up, wanting to ease the tension. "Y'all _both_ need to chill." He looked at Michael. "You gotta look out for your family, I get that, man, but Lamar saved your ass and he didn't have to. We wanted to steal your shit or rape your wife or whatever the fuck you think we gonna do, we coulda put a bullet in your dome the moment we stepped foot in your house. I ain't saying we upstanding motherfuckers, 'cause we ain't, but we're the best motherfuckers you probably gonna get. You need us, or you wouldn't have brought us back with you."

The older man grit his teeth, as if those words were a painful blow. The truth usually was. Michael closed his eyes with a heavy sigh, a hand coming up to yank at his graying hair. "Yeah...you're fucking-a right. I hate to admit it, but I don't know what the fuck I'm doing, and that's uncharted territory for me."

"This shit uncharted territory for _all_ of us, dog. Look, like I said, you need us, but we need you, too, especially if you handle a gun as good as you claim. Three that can shoot got a better chance out there than one or two."

"I guess we're going to find out; it's the only fucking option I got." He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "I'm gonna go try to talk the family into it. If you hear yelling, ignore it; it's normal."

The man stepped carefully through the debris and disappeared beyond the basement door.

Lamar went into what remained of the kitchen, tossing junk aside to get at the cabinets in hopes of finding some food. Franklin brushed some roofing off the couch and sat down, pulling his cellphone from his jeans pocket and powering it on. He'd kept it turned off to conserve the battery. Since this shit had started, he hadn't been able to get service, but his hope still held out that that would change. The only person he had left in the world besides Lamar was his girl Tanisha. She'd gone off to visit relatives in Vice City a week ago. He didn't know if what had happened here had happened there, too, but he needed to get in touch with her, to know she was okay, and she was probably just as worried about him as he was of her.

Unfortunately, the moment the menu screen came up on his iFruit, he was greeted with that 'no service' message. "Shit."

"Persistent motherfucker," Lamar remarked, watching his friend over a shoulder.

Franklin looked up at him, frowning. "What you sayin'?"

"You a persistent motherfucker," he clarified as he went back to rummaging through a cabinet. "Them cell towers down, probably got blown up. Put that persistence to use on the motherfuckin' situation at hand, fool."

Franklin rolled his eyes. "Thanks for the friendly advice, _homie_."

"I'm just sayin', _homie_. Ain't shit you can do about it. Gonna drive yo' ass crazy checkin' for service every ten fuckin' minutes when you ain't gettin' shit. Ain't that what that Mark Twain dude said, insanity's repeatin' shit, expectin' a different result?"

"That was Einstein."

Lamar waved a dismissive hand in the air. "Whatever, know-it-all nigga. You get the motherfuckin' point."

" _You're out of your fucking mind, Michael_!" came a feminine shriek from the basement.

"If you've got a better idea, I'm all fucking ears, Amanda!"

The screaming match between the spouses went on for a couple minutes, and was soon joined by two other voices, one male, one female. Franklin exchanged a what-the-fuck-is-that-about look with his friend.

"White people be fuckin' crazy," Lamar remarked with a shrug and tossed a bag of potato chips to Franklin. He found another bag for himself and stood in the remnants of the kitchen, cramming a handful of chips into his mouth.

The basement door slammed and Michael stormed into the living room, booting junk from his path, hands balled into fists at his sides. He looked between Franklin and Lamar and put his hands up in an exasperated gesture. "If you two survive this shit, _never_ get fucking married and have kids. Unless you enjoy being miserable."

The two friends just stared at the man, not having anything to say to that.

"So," Franklin spoke up to push the awkward moment on. "Your family agreed to this shit?"

"Agreed?" Michael laughed without humor. "Did it _sound_ like they were agreeing? They don't got a fucking choice, no more than I do or you do or any other poor schmuck that's alive out there. And apparently, that's _my_ fucking fault." His hands clenched into fists again. "Argh, fuck!"

The man paced a bit, perhaps in an effort to calm himself. Then he turned to Franklin and Lamar. "All right, look, if we're doing this, I need weapons." He shook his head. "Scratch that. We _all_ need weapons, as much firepower as we can carry without burdening ourselves."

Franklin rose a brow. "How the fuck we gonna get more guns?"

"There's an AmmuNation close by, in Morningwood. We go there and loot it. And let's just hope no one else got the same idea."

"And if they did?"

"Then...Jesus, I don't know. If those maniacs out there are tough fuckers like Carl was, we ain't gonna get far without guns." He looked at Franklin. "You said it yourself, the only thing that kills them is headshots."

"Who the fuck's Carl?" questioned Lamar.

"The man you put a bullet in. He was my neighbor; decent enough guy for a lawyer."

"Shit, man, sorry," Franklin said.

Michael shrugged. "It is what it is. Hang tight for a minute."

The man returned to the basement once again, presumably to explain to his family what the three of them were planning to do, and judging by the hostile yelling, the news was not well received. When Michael came back out into the living room, he was carrying something with him.

Franklin stared at the item with astonishment on his face. "Shit, is that a _harpoon gun_?"

Michael smirked. "Hey, it's considered a projectile weapon, right?" He jostled the spear-loaded instrument. "This baby's an antique, but she's still got a lot of life in her, and she's better than nothing."

"I guess so. You know how to use that thing?"

The man laughed, though Franklin failed to see any humor in the question. "Ask my wife's former fitness coach. The wife-stealing prick's sporting a prosthetic leg now...if he's even still out there."

"Shit, dog, you serious?"

"He got off easy," Michael declared as he headed for the front door.

* * *

It took them close to three hours to reach their destination, as they used alleyways and sneaking around at Franklin's insistence, which slowed their progression. Most of the streets were impeded by small groups of aimlessly wandering maniacs and abandoned vehicles. After everything Franklin had gone through with Lamar, he found avoiding the crazies as much as possible and taking them on only when it was absolutely necessary was the safest option. Going straight on the offense with those people was suicide, as they tended to be in packs or massive droves, and they were unnaturally strong and fast to boot. They were just unnatural, period.

Things took a turn for the worst when the men finally reached Morningwood and Chop let out a growl, forcing Lamar to reach down and cup him around the jaw to keep him from barking.

Coming to the mouth of an alleyway, the quartet stopped there, keeping hidden behind the wall of a building. Across the way in the parking lot of a strip mall, a gang of those mindless maniacs roamed, blocking entry to the AmmuNation. The front doors of the place had been blown open by something, splintered wood scattered around and the ground and walls damaged and blackened and smeared in blood. Pale, mangled body parts lay in the entrance way, and a handful of people were kneeling there, licking the blood off the concrete. Not far away from them, two others fought over an arm while a man slurped at the gory end of a severed leg.

"Ah, shit, I feel them chips comin' up," Lamar said, his face tinged green.

He dropped Chop's chain leash and Franklin stepped on it to keep the animal from running off as his owner lurched after a dumpster, doubling over, vomit spewing from his mouth with an uncomfortably noisy "Urrrgg."

"Hey, keep it down," Michael hissed at him.

Lamar shot him his middle finger as he gagged out the rest of those undigested chips, then he pushed Franklin's foot off the leash and scooped it up, wrapping it around a fist. Chop sniffed at the puddle of vomit and proceeded to lick it up until Lamar gave his leash a yank, making a disgusted face as he huddled beside the other two men. Thankfully, his vomiting hadn't attracted attention.

"Fuck, man," Franklin complained in a low voice as he eyed the group of people. "Nothing's ever easy, is it?"

"Never expect it to be, kid," Michael advised. "How smart are these things...people...whatever the fuck they are? Well, obviously they're all fucking insane, but I'm wondering if they're easily fooled."

Franklin looked at him. "What're you thinking?"

"Distraction. Break out a window down the street or set off a car alarm or...we could use the dog to draw them off."

"Oh, hell the fuck no. Them motherfuckers'll rip him apart," Lamar objected. "He can handle one or two, them stragglers you come across sometimes, but that big ass group? Fuck nah. I ain't riskin' the little homie's life for this shit."

"Then why the fuck did you bring him with us? What good is he?"

"I just told you, fool. He can handle one or two, and the little homie got better senses than us. Sniffed out them motherfuckers 'fore we saw 'em."

"Man, I don't know how intelligent these crazy motherfuckers are," Franklin said, changing the subject. "They walking around like they don't know where to go, spouting gibberish, but me and Lamar seen them take out a motherfucking tank."

Michael looked at him in disbelief. "A _tank_? How the fuck's that even possible?"

"Numbers. Thousands of these freaks downtown, like I said; that's where we seen it happen. Overwhelmed the tank and killed all the soldiers. There was other tanks, too, but they...shit, man, they fucking turned on each other. I don't know what the fuck's going on."

"You and me both, kid. Jesus fucking Christ."

Franklin looked back out at the assemblage of people moving about the parking lot. The fight over the severed arm had come to a conclusion, the victor walking off with his prize. The man lifted the gory end up to his mouth, fingers squeezing at the arm as if he were trying to work out the last glob from a tube of toothpaste. When he'd had his fill of it, he tossed it away, his mouth and chin stained in blood.

"See that shit, LD? I told you they ain't eating people. I think it's the fucking blood they after."

"What the...fuck?" Michael breathed, stepping back from the entrance to the alleyway and gripping at his hair. "The fuck _is_ this shit?"

Franklin looked around at him, anxious the older man was going to have a freak out. "You okay, man?"

Michael let out a weak laugh. "Fucking _perfect_." He dropped his hands from his head. "Okay, I've seen enough of this shit. Let's go get those fucking guns."

And, as the man had pointed out beforehand, that required a distraction. Franklin looked up and down the street, at the cars clogging it. There was no way to tell which ones had alarms from where they were, and they couldn't exactly go looking, but in simply breaking a few of the windows, it might provide enough of a distraction to draw them off. He then glanced around the alleyway and took note of the fire escape leading up to the roof of one of the buildings lining the street. There were also a few bricks laying around from a wall a sedan had smashed into.

Franklin formed an idea.

"A'ight, so you could take some them bricks over there up to the roof," he said, pointing out the fire escape. "Drop them down on the cars. That'll get those motherfuckers' attention. Might get lucky and hit one with an alarm. And they can't reach you up there."

"Unless they got enough sense to climb the fire escape," Michael pointed out.

"By then, we gonna have them guns," Franklin assured. "Grenades and RPGs and shit, too. That'll take their crazy asses out."

"If it ain't already been looted. But, you know what? This plan is the best we got, given the circumstances. So, let's get to it."

After Chop's leash had been secured to the handle of a dumpster, Franklin and Lamar helped Michael carry as many bricks as they could up to the roof. It took numerous trips and a lot of stamina. The older man was huffing and puffing by the time they'd gotten enough bricks up there.

"This better be fucking worth it," he said, leaning against the fire escape railing to catch his breath and wiping sweat from his brow with a forearm, despite the nippy chill in the air.

"Hey, man, you got the easy job up here," Franklin reminded him.

"Yeah, well, we'll see about that."

The men headed down the fire escape. Once Franklin and Lamar were on the ground, they pushed the fire escape ladder up and Michael used the mechanism on his level to lock in place, taking care of the potential problem of those maniacs getting up to the roof.

"Once you're in that shop, you're gonna have to move quick," the former bank robber advised the two. "I don't know how long this is gonna keep them distracted, if it does at all."

Franklin nodded. "A'ight, man."

He and Lamar returned to the mouth of the alley, watching the people still roaming about and waiting for Michael to start making some noise.

"You ready, LD?"

Lamar tsked and whipped out his pistol from the waistband of his jeans. "I was _born_ ready, nigga."

"A'ight, we gotta be sneaky though, dog, so don't be getting trigger-happy on them motherfuckers."

"Man, I _know_ , fool. Damn."

Franklin shrugged. "Just saying. I know how you are."

From somewhere up the street came the inevitable bang-and-crash as a brick dropped down on a car windshield. At the parking lot, heads jerked toward the noise and a few of the crazies moved in its direction. The sound of more glass shattering drew off a couple more, but it was still not enough. The ones kneeling near the AmmuNation entrance refused to be drawn away from the blood on the asphalt. A couple more bricks later, and a car alarm whooped, echoing through the street. Still, those few people remained where they were, blocking the entrance to the gun shop.

Franklin cursed. "They ain't moving."

"Man, fuck this," Lamar insisted. "We can take them motherfuckers."

He started to leave the alleyway until Franklin grabbed his arm and yanked him back. "Gunfire's gonna draw them others to us, fool. We gotta think of something else."

Lamar opened his mouth to argue, but was cut off before he could.

"Yo!" came Michael's shout from the rooftop. "Up here, you crazy fucks! Come and get me!"

Franklin saw a brick sail across the street, clocking one of the maniacs kneeling on the ground in the back of the head. He had to suppress a laugh. "Damn, old white dude got an arm."

The woman who'd gotten hit turned her head and gathered herself from the ground, her red eyes zeroing in on the threat. She let out this hellish sound and ran toward the others gathered outside the building Michael stood atop. Another brick flew across the street, but the aim was too low this time. It landed on the ground, breaking apart.

"Argh, fuck me!" Michael cursed.

He continued yelling and throwing bricks, most of them missing their targets, but the persistent onslaught finally got the attention of those last few stubborn lunatics. The others were still crowded around the front of the building, shouting incoherently and growling, and clawing at the walls and windows as if they could reach their intended victim that way.

"Here we go," Franklin said as the last person bolted away from the AmmuNation, screaming nonsense.

Lamar unwound Chop's leash from the dumpster handle, and then the three of them moved out of the alley and ran for the gun shop while Michael shouted and dropped bricks down on the heads of the people, keeping their full attention on him.

Franklin tried to ignore the scattered body parts and the amount of gore on the shop's floor as he made a beeline for the stockroom, where most of the firearms and ammunition were kept, Lamar and Chop on his heels. He grabbed what firearms he could as his friend ransacked the accessories shelves, grabbing a couple duffel bags to carry their loot.

"Remember what Michael said," Franklin cautioned his friend. "Too much gonna weigh us down. We probably gonna have to run after this."

"Quit telling me shit I already know, nigga."

"Consider it a friendly reminder, _nigga_."

The duo worked together quick, Franklin stuffing one duffel with an assortment of firearms while Lamar took care of the required ammunition. When they were done, they started to head out, but Lamar stopped at the door, staring up at the wall on his right with a broad grin on his face.

"Woo! It's fuckin' Christmas up in here!"

Franklin turned to him as he was reaching up for something. "Man, _let's go_. He ain't gonna distract them forever."

"He ain't gotta do shit when I got _this_ bad motherfucker!" Lamar declared, pulling up the RPG launcher to rest on his right shoulder. "Grab up some rockets, fool. I'mma 'bout to blow up some crazy bitches!"

Situating his duffel bag to rest on his left hip, Franklin grabbed as many rockets as he could carry from a crate on the floor and followed his friend out of the shop. As they stood there on the edge of the parking lot, Franklin passed off one of the rockets to Lamar and he loaded into the launcher.

"Hold on, man," Franklin said, then glanced up at the roof, where Michael stood, and waved an arm around to get the man's attention without making unnecessary noise. After a moment, Michael caught sight of him and backed away from the ledge of the roof, knowing what was coming.

"Aim for that car by them," Franklin told his friend. "That gonna rip them fuckers apart."

"I got this, fool. Get Chop and get out the way."

Franklin grabbed the dog's leash off his friends wrist and stepped aside. Lamar used both hands to steady his aim, then squeezed the trigger. The rocket hissed out of the launcher, and Lamar stumbled a bit from the force of its departure. The rocket still flew true, smashing into its target. The car exploded, and two others around it were caught in its destructive radius, going up into simultaneous fireballs. They all lifted off the asphalt and crashed back down to it, one smoldering vehicle overturning on its side. The energy from the explosion blew apart some maniacs. Flaming metal and gore swept through the air in every direction, smashing through shop windows and down onto a few cars and the street. A handful of people were on fire. Or at least that's what Franklin had first thought until he realized it was only their clothes that was burning. The people themselves...

He could hardly believe his eyes. " _What the...fuck_...?"

The skin should've been melting off their bones, but their physical bodies were utterly untouched by the flames. How was that fucking _possible_? It defied the very laws of nature!

There was no time to think about it, as the lunatics saw them and rushed for them, screaming bloody murder.

"Gimme a rocket, Frank!" Lamar shouted.

 _Fuck that._ "You ain't gonna have time to load it and get it off. We gotta run, man!"

Franklin didn't wait for a response from his friend, dropping the last two rockets down and bolting off across the street toward the alleyway, yelling for Michael to get that fire escape ladder down. Lamar threw the launcher forward and followed, pulling his pistol out. The moment he got to the alley, he turned and fired off a few shots at the pursuing maniacs, winging one and getting another in the chest, though both shots did nothing to slow them.

Franklin found Michael standing on the lowest level of the fire escape, the ladder down as he'd asked. The man had his harpoon gun aimed out, and the moment those freaks came screaming into the alleyway, he squeezed the trigger. The harpoon sailed right through a man's head, the impact knocking his corpse back on the ground. Michael dropped his harpoon gun and looked down at Franklin.

"Kid, give me your gun!"

As Lamar fired bullet after bullet on the advancing maniacs, Franklin tossed his pistol up to Michael. He caught it with ease, leveled it at a target, and fired. A man dropped dead, a hole in his forehead. He fired again. Another headshot. As the gun went on thundering in the man's skilled grip, the last of the maniacs dropped like flies.

Michael climbed down the ladder to rejoin the other two, handing Franklin back his gun.

"Shit, dude, glad to see you wasn't lying about knowing how to shoot," the young man said.

Michael smirked. "Ah, well, what can I say? It's a gift."

"And modest, too."

"Hey," the man laughed. "I don't got much else going for me." He gestured at the duffel bag sitting on Franklin's hip. "So, how was the take?"

Franklin dropped the bag on the ground and bent over to unzip it, displaying the firearms he'd looted. Michael knelt down to look through them, nodding in approval. "Ammo?"

"I got it, dog," Lamar said, reaching out to take Chop's leash from Franklin.

Michael smiled at them. "Hey, for two kids, you ain't half bad. Good work. Now, we better haul ass. We've seen how easily these animals are drawn to sound, and we just made a fucking lot of it."


	3. Three

**Trevor**

* * *

A couple of hours north of fallen Los Santos, in the tiny desert town of Sandy Shores, Trevor Philips jolted from the dim realm of half-sleep by a nerve-rending cacophony of thunderous banging and some inconsiderate jackass yelling his name so loud he may as well have been doing it through a fucking bullhorn. He rarely slept as it was, and as much as he hated to acknowledge it, he did _actually_ need it sometimes. This was one of those fucking times.

The middle-aged, balding man made some noise between a growl and a groan as he heaved himself up from the worn mattress, ready to rip the lungs out of whomever had the goddamned _nerve_ to wake him. He barely registered the muffled din of gunfire, screaming, and sirens coming from outside. Out here where the drug dealers and gun runners outnumbered the cacti, those noises were not exactly out of the ordinary. What _was_ out of the ordinary was the fact that the inconsiderate jackass who'd woken him up just happened to be Ron Jakowski, business partner and reluctant, apprehensive friend. The man should've known better than to pull shit like this, considering what happened to him the last time.

"Thank God you're awake!" Ron shouted in a panic from the front door of the trailer, where he leaned back against it in an effort to keep it shut against some force assaulting it from the other side. The man's face was pale and terrified. "It's them, Trevor!"

At the mention of 'them', Trevor's first thought was of those leather-wearing, hog-riding neanderthals who referred to themselves as the Lost Motorcycle Club. It wouldn't have been the first time those pathetic excuses for bikers paid him an unexpected visit. While he had been supplying them with piles of methamphetamine for a few months now, his relationship with the outlaws was rocky at best, mostly due to the fact that he'd been giving it to the president's old lady for as long as he'd been selling them drugs and didn't bother to hide that fact. It wasn't _his_ fault that _she_ came to _him_ and offered to suck his cock or let him fuck her any way he pleased just for a hit off his meth pipe. What was he supposed to do, say no and send her on her way? Fat fucking chance of that.

"Boss!" Ron cried out again just as the door burst inward, sending the short man stumbling across the tiny room, where his back collided with the bulky refrigerator.

A tall man rushed in after him, growling and salivating at the mouth like a rabid dog. Ron cursed and ducked away at the last second, the other man rebounding off the fridge and falling back on the dirty carpet. Trevor took note that the man was not dressed in the usual Lost MC attire and was in fact just some random guy. That did nothing to soothe his flaring temper, however. He didn't appreciate some fucking stranger bursting into his trailer without an invitation. A man's home was a sacred place, goddammit. Who did this prick think he was?

As the man began to rise to his feet, Trevor grabbed the combat pistol he kept handy on the bedside table and approached behind him, wearing nothing but a pair of dingy white underpants that hadn't been washed since President Lawton was elected. He rose the gun to the back of the man's skull and squeezed the trigger before the guy even knew he was standing there. The bang was deafening in the small, confined metal trailer, making Trevor's ears ring. He looked from the body sprawled at his feet to a wide-eyed Ron, a scowl on his blood-spattered face.

"You mind telling me who the fuck this dead prick was?" It was more of a command than a request.

Ron, who'd gotten hold of a butcher knife from the kitchen(though Trevor highly doubted he would've done anything useful with it), stepped over to the corpse. Hesitantly, he put a foot on the dead man's side and pushed him over on his back, then he looked up at Trevor through his spectacles. "I don't know him...I mean, not personally and he ain't from town, but..." Ron got that knowing look of his, the look he _always_ got when he was about to bore Trevor with all his unoriginal theories about aliens and government mind control and other related subjects. "He's one of _them_ , Trevor."

Trevor tilted his head back and sighed harshly at the ceiling. "The fuck are you _talking_ about? One of _who_? Start making some fuckin' sense, Ron, before I make you a fuckin' corpse."

Ron blanched and rushed onward, "Remember what we'd heard on the HAM radio a couple days ago? All that shit that went down in LS?"

He recalled. There'd been some shit on the TV about it, too, until the stations quit broadcasting for some reason. Mostly, they'd gotten the information from the HAM; amateur radio operators from the city, explaining in detail what had gone down, or at least as much detail as was offered to them. They hadn't seemed to know too much, other than the majority of the population going completely berserk with senseless bloodlust, killing everyone in sight while the police force and army failed to control the situation. Trevor hadn't been surprised, considering both forces were as useless as tits on a bull, but he remembered wishing he had been there; not only to see the city and its repulsive population go to its rightful ruin, but to join in on the chaos. It would've been one helluva fucking party. In any case, the smog-choked metropolis was a total loss now. Some of those amateur HAM operators had claimed it was some biological terrorist attack that had caused it all. Ron, on the other hand, insisted it was the nefarious 'Lizard People', but Ron was an idiot.

The bespectacled man pointed at the corpse on the carpet. "He's one of them," he said again. "One of those lunatics from the city. They're crawling all over town as we speak, _slaughtering_ people!"

Trevor bent over the body for a closer look, a hand on a bare knee. The corpse's face was lined with a network of bulging veins that snaked down the throat and under the shirt collar. The arms and hands were just as veined and the dead, wide-open eyes were as red as the blood that oozed around the head. He didn't know what to think about it, aside from it just being unnatural and kind of weirdly awesome in the way that mysterious, bizarre things were. Whatever the hell it was, he hoped it wasn't fucking contagious.

"This is serious shit, Trevor. We...uh, maybe we should do something."

Trevor cut his wicked eyes up at him, then straightened up and clapped the man on the shoulder. It pleased him immensely when Ron flinched at his touch. "Oh, don't worry about that; we are definitely gonna do something, little buddy. If these freaky fucks are all over town, we need to get down to the lab, make sure it's secure." He grinned. "After that, we're gonna act on this golden opportunity, and join in on the fun!"

"Uh...what's the point, boss?"

Trevor blinked, then reached out and knocked his knuckles against the side of Ron's head. "Hello, are you listening? I told you why. It'll be fun."

Ron shook his head and rubbed anxiously at the back of his neck. "I...I meant about the lab. What's the point of securing it if we just let our customers die?"

Trevor's mouth tightened with displeasure. "Are you _trying_ to ruin my plans for an enjoyable afternoon? As I recall, most of our customer base is outside this town." He stepped up to the man, getting in his face, his own wearing a dangerous, threatening look. "Don't fuckin' question me again."

Ron flinched away. "S-sorry, Trevor. I don't know what I was thinking."

"You weren't. Now grow a fuckin' brain and get your ass in gear. The truck ain't gonna start itself."

"You got it, boss." Ron hopped to it until he got to the door, then he paused and looked back at Trevor, where he now stood in the bedroom, pulling a pair of worn jeans up over his hips. "Uh...Trevor? You wouldn't happen to have a spare gun laying around, would you?"

"Why? Where's your gun?"

Ron stammered, "Well, I...you see, I was in a hurry and-"

"Jesus Christ...you left it at home, didn't you, you moron?"

Ron looked down at his feet, embarrassed.

"Why the fuck do I put up with you?" Trevor sighed as if he were expelling a decade worth of vexation.

"I know, Trevor. I'm horrible."

"Yes, you are. Now what are you waiting for?"

"But those crazy folks out there, how am I-"

"It ain't _my_ problem, Ron. Go back to that shithole you call home and get your own fuckin' gun," Trevor cut him off. "Don't expect me to coddle you when you fuck up. Now move!" He thrust a finger toward the door. "And put some pep in your fuckin' step!"

Ron grabbed the truck keys off the kitchen counter and was gone out of the trailer in a heartbeat, the din of violence outside growing loud and then fading a bit as the door opened and shut. Trevor could hear Ron mutter "Oh, God Almighty" in a frightened voice from the porch and chuckled to himself as he pulled a grimy t-shirt over his head. What a puss.

After lacing up his favorite pair of boots, Trevor grabbed his combat pistol from where he'd lain it on the mattress and headed out the front door. He stood there on the porch a moment, watching the chaotic madness unfolding before his dirt-brown eyes. _Well, would you look at that._ It was a glorious sight that caused his heart to flutter in his chest. When Ron had claimed the town was 'crawling' with them, Trevor had suspected he was overplaying it. He hadn't.

The townsfolk of Sandy Shores ran through the streets like ants from a disturbed hill, most sought after by roaring, raging, bloodthirsty lunatics. However, a handful of smalltowners utilized their Second Amendment right, blasting on the crazies with pistols and shotguns and the occasional assault rifle. Trevor saw one of those maniacs take a load of buckshot full in the chest, only for the man to recover from it as if he'd only been shoved back by a hand. Blood oozed from the numerous holes in his shirt, staining the fabric a bright red. Then he threw himself at the astonished man with the shotgun, moving too fast for him to react. No one came to the victim's aid, preoccupied with trying to keep themselves alive. Mr. Shotgun Wielder got off a startled shout before the lunatic's face plunged in for his throat and tore it open with his teeth. The shotgun dangled from the man's hand for a moment, then dropped from his limp fingers. The crazy person held the body to him as if he were a lover, his face still buried in the dead man's neck.

While all that was going on, the county deputies from the local Sheriff's station attempted to gain some kind of control over the madness, not having any luck at it whatsoever. There weren't many of them left; there hadn't been many to begin with, as the town consisted of a force of around twenty law officers. A number of beige-uniformed men and women lay dead and mangled among the multitude of slain residents. Those freaks hovered over them like vultures, feasting on them, mostly at their throats.

A couple yards from Trevor's trailer, a man ripped into a pale, dead woman's stomach with his bare hands, pulling the intestines out and tossing them aside. They hit the pavement with a wet slap, and the man stuck his hands back in the body, scooping blood out and slurping it from his cupped palms.

While this was exactly the kind of madness Trevor found enjoyment in, it was also a little worrying. His meth lab was just up the road, within walking distance. If these fuckers got inside, killed the only cook he had...Chef could handle himself well enough, but these people weren't pissed off drug dealers or bikers—their typical kind of enemy. They were violent, mindless maniacs that seemed unstoppable. _Kinda like me_ , Trevor mused. But at least he still had some of his wits about him, and he didn't _seem_ unstoppable, he _was_ unstoppable. And by God, he wasn't going to let this lot of fucking weirdos destroy all he'd built here.

Trevor left the porch and marched across the small yard that separated his and Ron's trailers, intending to see what the fuck was keeping the man. He was met halfway by one of those creeps, a woman. She ran at him, screaming like a harpy. Her face was ashen, veins protruding under the flesh and her eyes were two glowing embers, filled with hellish rage.

 _The fuck is wrong with them?_ Trevor aimed his pistol at the woman's forehead, staring down the sights. "Fuck off, you creepy cunt!" His forefinger squeezed the trigger, the pistol called out, and the bullet burrowed home. The freak's head jerked back in a little spray of blood and she dropped to the ground. Shooting them in the head seemed to be the _only_ way to keep them down for some reason, a fact only Trevor seemed to take note of, as most of the armed locals were still aiming for center mass, to stop rather than to kill. Their desire to keep their morality intact clashed with their instinct to survive, and that was why they were all biting the dust. In a kill or be killed situation, there was no room for morals. Idiots, every last one of them. They deserved what they got.

The man didn't bother knocking when he got to Ron's door. When he tried the knob, however, it wouldn't budge. Trevor growled out his impatience, then rose a fist and banged it on the rickety door. "Ron! You better not be hiding in there! Open the fuckin' door!"

He heard shuffling and muffled curses coming from inside the trailer, then the door opened and Ron stepped out, gun in hand. Trevor made to lay hands on him and haul his ass off to the truck, but Ron's eyes flew wide behind his glasses and he pointed a finger over Trevor's shoulder. "Behind you!"

Trevor spun quick on his heel to find three hundred pounds of madman bearing down on him. " _Jesus_ , he's a big fucker!" But he died just as easily as the other had, kissing the dirt with a bullet in his skull.

That out of the way, Trevor grabbed Ron by the collar of his red-plaid shirt and dragged him off toward the truck parked along the road. "Correct me if I'm wrong, Ron, but did I not fuckin' tell you to have the truck ready?"

"Yes, you did. I was just-"

"You've always got an excuse, don't you? When the _only_ excuse you should have for disobeying a standing order is being fuckin' dead. Are you dead?"

Ron blinked a few times. "Uh...n-no?"

"Oh, close! The correct answer you're looking for is 'not yet'." Trevor let go of his shirt and draped an arm about the shorter man's shoulders. "In other words, it would be in your best interests not to give me _more_ reasons to butcher you." And for every next word he spoke, Trevor gave the side of Ron's head a tap with the muzzle of his pistol. "Am I making myself fuckin' clear?"

Ron swallowed audibly and bobbed his head up and down. "Crystal fucking clear, boss."

"Fantastic!" He gave the man a shove toward the passenger side of the faded red truck, then held a hand out. "Gimme the keys. There's no way in hell I'm letting you drive."

Ron handed them over, then clambered into the passenger seat as Trevor went around to get in behind the steering wheel. The engine roared to life, catching the attention of a few lunatics nearby.

"Be ready with that gun," Trevor ordered. "We ain't stopping for shit, so if one of those bastards happens to get attached to ol' Betty here-" He patted the dashboard for emphasis. "-you better get 'em the fuck off."

"Yes, sir."

With that, Trevor jerked the gear shifter into the drive position and gunned his truck through the street. True to his word, he didn't stop for anything, mowing down the people that got in his way, creeps and regular folk alike. Ron made up for his earlier blunder when a man was struck by Betty the Bodhi and was somehow able to cling to the hood. He was one of _them_. The man had lifted a fist to smash it through the windshield when Ron rose in his seat, clinging onto the top of the open-roofed truck with one hand while the other held the pistol that put a bullet in the creep's face. While Trevor wasn't all that impressed, he was at least glad to see that Ron had been practicing with the weapon.

Trevor made it to the liquor store that served as a front for his meth lab just in time to see a group of those crazy fuckers break through the front door's glass. They moved as one, shoving and pushing and pulling at each other, getting wedged in the entrance.

"Hey, hey, hey! Get the _fuck_ away from my lab!" Trevor hollered and pushed the pedal to the metal.

"Uhm...boss?" Ron tried with a tone full of anxiety as the Bodhi hurtled toward the group. He had a death grip on his pistol with one hand and the side of the passenger seat with the other. "Are you sure about th-oh, _shit_!"

Bodies smashed against the truck's grille and bumper and went flying back from the impact, scattering across the road and sidewalk. The ones wedged in the door were sent crashing inside the building, knocking over a shelf of liquor. The bottles shattered on the people and the floor, leaving a mess of broken glass and a pool of amber liquid. A couple of other freaks were knocked through the store's window and lay among the shards of glass and cases of beer stacked just on the inside, struggling to pull themselves up.

Trevor hadn't noticed it a moment ago while dispersing the group with his truck, but now he could hear shouting and gunfire coming from around the back of the building. He recognized the voice, belonging to that of his meth cook, a man who only went by the name Chef.

Trevor was out of his truck by the time the creeps on the street had regrouped. There were five of them, men and women full of a mindless rage that rivaled his own. It was never like in the movies; the enemies didn't come for the hero one at a time. The five of them rushed him quick, and Trevor had no choice but to throw himself into the back of his truck. He had enough sense not to take the chance of them getting their hands on him. If they could tear open someone's stomach, they could probably rip him limb from limb.

As he rolled over on his back, he heard their bodies thump up against the side of the truck. Hands reached for him. One got a hold of his leg and squeezed, fingers digging into his calf so hard Trevor felt the muscle spasm. He aimed his pistol and put a bullet through the fucker's forehead. Another gunshot followed that one, not from his gun, and Trevor saw a spray of blood from someone's shoulder as he took aim at one of the others. Bang. Headshot. Two down, three to go.

"Aim for the fuckin' head, moron!" he shouted at Ron. "Only way they stay down!"

"We got a big problem, boss!" Ron called as he scrambled over the front seats, landing in the truck bed on a knee with a wince. "The ones inside are trying to get out to us. We're surrounded!"

Trevor's pistol called out again. The one Ron had winged fell. "Well, don't just fuckin' sit there and give me a play-by-play, you useless prick! Kill the motherfuckers!"

Ron didn't need telling twice; ol' Ronnie rarely needed telling twice, that was the good thing about him. Standing up in the truck bed, he aimed his gun with shaking hands at the creeps trying to get out through the front door, which was blocked by the side of the Bodhi. His gun thundered and blood spattered the creeps and the side of the truck as a body slipped to the ground. "Go away!"

One of the two remaining creeps standing around the left side of the truck fell to his demise, and as Trevor zeroed his aim on the last, the freaky bastard let out some hellish scream and swung an arm. It connected with the gun, sending it flying from Trevor's now throbbing fingers, where it clattered on the ground somewhere, far from reach. "Motherfucker!"

The creep grabbed onto the side of the truck, meaning to pull himself into the cargo bed. Anger and its adrenaline pouring through his veins, Trevor drew back a foot and smashed it into the creep's chest with all the strength he could muster. He was vaguely aware of the man flailing away as he threw himself over the side of the truck's tailgate, landing on the ground in a half squat.

His combat pistol was resting there on the concrete beside a tire, just waiting for him. What luck!

He snatched it up and straightened just as the creep came screaming at him in his mindless bloodthirst, hands out, ready to rip him to pieces. He wasn't alone. Four others came from around the back of the building to join the frey.

Trevor welcomed them.

"Fuck you!" he roared at the man, firing his gun twice. The creep died mid-run, his body jerking as it came crashing down to the ground. Trevor sidestepped him, and with no hesitation whatsoever, he advanced on to the other four like a man with nothing to lose. " _Fuck every last one of you_!"

The pistol in his hands sang its death song as the four broke for him. Two dropped dead, but the remaining two, a man and a woman, got to him before he could get off another shot. Forced into close combat, Trevor had no choice but to use his gun as a melee weapon, to fend them off and hopefully gain the distance he needed to finish them off.

He slammed the butt of the pistol into the man's head with all his strength behind it. The creep not so much as blinked from the blow he'd administered, but instead lashed out at him with a hellish growl, as his female companion advanced in on Trevor's right.

He danced away from their violent hands like lightning, the move giving him just enough space to raise his gun again. It cracked and the man went down, but shooting him gave the woman time to rush in again. In a blur of movement, she bowled Trevor over with a strength that should have been impossible for one of the opposite sex. He was forced to let go of his gun when her freakishly strong hands sought to do damage, grabbing onto her wrists to hold her off. She straddled his pelvis, and as they wrestled about with each other, the movement caused her ass to grind against his crotch. Nothing could stop his body from responding to the unintentional stimulation, his pants growing uncomfortably tight despite the situation.

"Christ, you wanna stop trying to kill me and get me off instead?" he groaned at the freakish woman. "I'd fuckin' appreciate it."

She responded the way most women did when he made sexual suggestions to them, she screamed at him, her veined face contorted in rage. Those red eyes were hungry for his blood and nothing else. What a shame.

The woman jerked back against his hold, trying to break it, but Trevor held on for dear life, her weird strength lifting his back from the ground for a moment. Then he heard a loud, emphatic crack and her head exploded all over him. At least that's what it had seemed like. All he saw was a burst of red, felt the warm slickness of blood spatter his face, then her weight left him.

"T!" came Ron's anxious voice. The man's ugly mug flew into his field of vision, all concerned. "Trevor! Are you okay!?"

"Calm your tits, Ron. I'm fine," he answered as he climbed to his feet and glanced around. He caught sight of Chef standing over near the truck, shouldering an assault rifle.

"They've all been exterminated, boss!" the man called.

Trevor was pleased by all the bodies he saw sprawled around the Bodhi and the side of the booze shop. There were likely more corpses around back and inside the store as well. While Chef had only been working for him for a few months now, he was turning out to be a great asset. It was rare to find someone as talented at wielding a firearm as they were at cooking meth.

"Excellent!" he piped as he shoved his pistol in the waist of his jeans and sauntered over to the man. He stopped in his tracks abruptly, only now realizing something. One member of their little crew was missing. Trevor turned on his heel to face Ron, who froze mid-stride, tensing up for the worst. "Where the fuck's that cretin at?"

"Uh...Wade?"

He rolled his eyes. "Do you know of any other cretin, aside from him and yourself? Yes, Wade."

"I haven't seen him all day."

"Well, then find out where he _is_ and if the little fucker hasn't gotten himself killed yet, bring 'im here. He's got a lot of fuckin' explaining to do for his absence." Trevor stalked away, leaving Ron there to figure out how to get back into the main part of town in one piece without a vehicle.

As he approached Chef, he observed the inquiring look on the tall, sturdy man's face. "What?"

"It's just..." Chef frowned, hesitating.

" _Yes_?" Trevor made an impatient proceeding gesture with a hand. "Out with it."

"These... _people_ _—_ whatever they are—got out of the city, and since they found their way here, chances are they're on the loose elsewhere across Blaine County too, so...it's still business as usual?"

"Of _course_ it's still business as usual! Fuck them! You think I'm gonna let a bunch of deranged freaks stop me from doing what I love?"

"I was thinking more like the regular folks—the _customers,_ _in particular_ _—_ are gonna be more concerned with those freaks and surviving them. Meth is probably gonna be the last thing on their minds."

Trevor laughed at that. "You do realize you're talking about _tweakers_? Come hell or high water, they'll do what they gotta do for a fix, even if it means giving up a kidney, pimping out their relatives or braving a handful of disease-ridden freaks. Besides, Trevor Philips Industries ain't just about the meth; there's the _other_ side of the business—the guns. And people are gonna need guns now more than ever." He grinned and slapped the man on the back, hard. "If anything, Chef, I'd say business is gonna be _real_ fuckin' good."


	4. Four

**A/N:** Dearest Reader, I think we can all agree I'm a complete ass for not updating this story in forever, and I'm sorry. I have no excuse. Well, I do, but I know you don't wanna hear it(or read it, if we're being technical).

Anyway, I did some revision to the last three chapters. Nothing plot-drastic, just added a few things here and took out some things there, fixed the typos and inconsistencies I could find. And gosh, there were a lot. I'm surprised you didn't notice, Dearest Reader. Or did you, and you were just sitting back, pointing and laughing at me? You were, weren't you? Well, that's okay. I still love you.

* * *

 **Michael**

* * *

It was surreal, watching the members of his family get a feel for the pistols he'd put in their innocent, clean hands—something Michael thought he would never have to do as long as he lived. But he wasn't going to pretend like he could protect them from it, what was inevitable. He'd experienced the threat outside, and it was unlike anything he had ever faced, a nightmare made real. They would, sooner or later, have to kill to survive. He could and would do everything in his power to keep his family safe and from having to go down that road, but, realistically, he knew there may come a time when all his power wouldn't be enough. They needed to be prepared for it; they needed the tools to protect themselves and each other.

Amanda and Tracey weren't any more thrilled about it than he was, if the looks on their faces were any indication. They held and stared at their guns as if they were live bombs.

Jimmy, on the other hand, was downright ecstatic, pointing his pistol out in front of him and shutting one eye as he looked down the weapon's sights, grinning from ear to ear. "Fuck yeah! Those crazy motherfuckers don't stand a chance with Dangerous J packing heat! Head shots for days, bitches!" Laughing, he aimed the gun at a wall and squeezed the trigger. It gave a dry, hollow _click_.

Michael was glad he'd had the presence of mind to give them unloaded guns.

Face contorted in angry disapproval, he reached out and snatched the pistol from Jimmy's overeager hand. "Lesson one, Jim: don't _ever_ point a gun unless you're planning on squeezing the trigger, and the _only_ fucking time you squeeze that trigger is when it's life or death, you or them. You understand me? This ain't one of your fucking video games—you ain't getting _points_ for taking them out. You're getting to live to see another day."

Jimmy glared at him and Michael glared right back as a heavy, awkward silence fell over the room.

Somewhere outside came the distant, muffled din of gunfire; perhaps some poor soul's last ditch effort for survival.

"Michael..." spoke Amanda, frowning at her husband.

He faced her with a stern look. "I ain't gonna sugar coat the truth, Mandy. I know what's out there, what those people are capable of. They're a fucking nightmare—worse than a nightmare." He pointed a finger at his son. "He needs to understand what that means, that it ain't a game. There's a real fucking threat and his actions are gonna have consequences."

"Yeah, thanks, Pop, for the 'fatherly' guidance," Jimmy snapped. "Despite what you think, I'm not a fucking idiot, okay? I was down in that basement too; I heard the same shit you did. I _know_ there's a threat and this ain't a fucking game!"

Michael sighed. "Jim, I love you, I really do, but take it from your old man. Until you're faced with life or death, until you see the life go out of another human being's eyes, _you don't know shit_."

"And you know all about that, don't you, Dad?" Bitter anger and contempt oozed out of Jimmy's voice, matching the expression on his face. "Like on a psychotic fucking level."

Michael was unmoved by the biting accusation, mostly because it was true. "Yeah, exactly; I know what I'm talking about. So, why don't you can the fucking attitude and _listen_ to me for a change, and maybe we'll all get through this in one piece. Sound good? _Great._ "

For the first time in what seemed like forever, there was no further sass from Jimmy De Smartass. He looked down at the unloaded pistol in Michael's hand and said with a softer, compliant tone, "Can I have the gun back now, or am I, like, forbidden to use one now?"

Michael was hesitant at first, then remembered why he'd armed them all in the first place and held the gun out to him. When Jimmy reached for it, he drew it back and gave his son a stern, business-like look. "No bullshit, James."

Jimmy rolled his eyes. "I heard you the first time. Fuck, _I get it,_ okay?"

"Good." Michael placed the gun in his son's hand and hoped to God he _had_ heard him. "All right, time to go over the basics..."

The whole process of explaining how to use a gun and its features took a good forty minutes and all of Michael's patience. Amanda and Jimmy showed promise, catching on quick. It was Tracey who worried him, as she struggled with even the simplest aspects. She was going to be one of those people who needed a lot of practice before they were any good. The only problem was there was no time for practice. They couldn't stay in the house much longer. If a pack of those lunatics out there decided to come inside, there were no doors to keep them out. They would be forced to kill them, and the sound of the gunfire would likely draw more.

He would just have to keep an eye on Tracey at all times and keep her close, until he was sure she could handle herself.

"The guns are a last resort," Michael explained. "Those people out there..." He paused and looked around for Franklin. The younger man stood in the adjoining kitchen, stuffing a backpack Michael had given him earlier with whatever food and supplies he could find. Lamar wasn't far away, feeding his Rottweiler. "Hey, Frank, c'mere a sec."

Franklin zipped up the pack and stepped over the piles of debris that littered the floor. "What's up?"

"I need your voice," Michael said, causing confusion to spread across Franklin's face. "I mean, what we saw out there earlier...I _know_ what I saw, but I just need the extra confirmation, so they understand what we're up against. Make it real for them; tell them everything you and Lamar witnessed coming through the city, in graphic detail."

Franklin hesitated, looking at Michael's family and then at Michael. He leaned over and lowered his voice, "Are you sure, man? You think it's wise to scare the shit out of them right now?"

"I'd rather they have the shit scared out of them now than have the shit scared out of them when we're out there. I mean, they're going to be scared regardless, but if they know exactly what to expect, the fear won't be half as bad as it would be if they didn't know."

Franklin seemed to consider this, then nodded his head. "Yeah, a'ight, man. I get you."

Michael clapped him on a shoulder. "Thanks."

While Franklin explained to the rest of the De Santa clan what was waiting for them outside, Michael stood back and lit himself a much needed cigarette from the crumpled pack in his pocket, watching the foul smoke curl up toward the destroyed ceiling. The young man didn't mince words as he told Amanda, Jimmy and Tracey how those monsters in human flesh literally tore through the army and overcame a tank, how the soldiers manning the other tanks somehow, for some bizarre and ungodly reason, turned on each other; how he saw a fighter jet screaming over the city suddenly change course and fly itself into the Maze Bank building; how the monsters were feeding on the blood of their victims and roamed the streets in groups, like packs of predatorial wolves.

By the time he was done, Amanda was pale as paper, Jimmy's mouth hung open in wordless shock, his eyes so wide they almost took up his face, and Tracey was bawling. She jumped up from where she'd been sitting on the dusty and littered couch and ran to her father through the fragments of their broken home. Her arms whipped around Michael's midsection with a strength that belied her petite size, leaving him winded and stunned as she cried in his shirt. It was the first time she'd hugged him in _years_.

"I don't wanna go out there, Daddy!" she wailed. "We can't go out there! We'll fucking _die_!"

Michael patted her back soothingly. "We don't got a choice, Trace. We can't stay here." He pulled her back by the shoulders, looking down into her wet, red, scrunched up face. He was struck by how much she looked like the little girl who used to come crying to him when she scraped a knee, on those occasions when he'd actually been around and not out robbing banks and raising hell. "We're gonna be fine, all right? No one's gonna die." He couldn't know that anymore than the rest of them could. He was merely trying to keep her calm and her spirits up.

Of course, Tracey saw right through him. She had inherited that distinctive(and annoying) X-ray vision from her mother. "You don't know that!"

Michael sighed. "You're right, I don't, but I'm gonna do everything I fucking can to make sure we're all safe. _Everything_. I promise."

"What about all my friends?" Tracey sniffled. Her eyes widened. "And Roger! Oh, my God, I totally forgot about Roger! We have to find them, Daddy, all of them! We can take them out of the city with us!"

"Tracey, sweetheart," Michael said with barely conserved patience. "I'm sure they're fine." He wasn't sure and honestly didn't care if they were or not. In all likelihood they were dead or had gone crazy like everyone else, and even if they hadn't, there was no way they could help them. It was too much of a risk. He wouldn't tell her that, of course, as he didn't have the heart to break hers. "They've probably gotten out of the city and went north to Paleto Bay or somewhere, where it's safe."

"How do you know it's safe?" Amanda spoke up. "How do you know what happened here hasn't happened up north too?"

Michael shot her a stormy look over their daughter's blond head. Why couldn't she just be on his side, back him up, for _once_ , for the sake of their own children? Did she despise him that much? "Assuming this is some kind of terrorist attack, why the fuck would they bother with smaller towns?"

"Man, I don't think they would," Franklin added his two cents. "I mean, when you hear about all those terrorist attacks on the news, it's always some big city and like government buildings or spots where a lot of people gather. They just want a high body count, do as much damage they can."

Michael spread his hands out before him and said, "Thank you."

" _Assuming_ it was terrorists," Amanda argued.

"What the fuck else could it be?"

"Zombie apocalypse," Lamar chimed in as he knelt down and scrubbed behind Chop's ears.

"Man, _shut up_ with that zombie shit," Franklin shot at him, irritated. "Nothin' can raise the dead, fool. And even if something could, none of them motherfuckers out there are corpses; they ain't decayed and shit."

Lamar straightened up and gave his friend a serious look. "Nigga, ain't you ever heard of voodoo? Them voodoo priests know them black magic spells, be chantin' and sprinklin' them herbs on dead bodies and shit. Raisin' motherfuckers right outta they motherfuckin' coffin." He stuck his arms straight out in front of him, letting his hands hang at the wrists, and pretended to shamble around. "Be like 'Gimme yo' brains, motherfucker. This zombie nigga hungry for yo' _brains_.'"

"Oh, for the love of..." Michael groaned, pressing a hand against his face as his son keeled over laughing.

Franklin rolled his eyes and shook his head at his friend's antics. "You done lost your motherfuckin' mind, nigga."

"Look, we can worry about the why and the how later," said Michael, "when we've gotten far away from this hellhole. So let's focus on that. Like I was saying before, the guns are a last resort; we don't use them unless there's absolutely no other choice." He looked at each person in the room, wearing a serious, no-nonsense expression. "Out there, our best friend is stealth. Long as we don't draw their attention, we're golden."

"Stealth?" Amanda asked, putting on a dubious look. "That means we're leaving on foot? With all those cannibal murderers out there? On _foot_ , Michael?"

"Yes, Amanda, _on foot,_ as opposed to driving a car through the littered streets and taking the risk of stalling out or getting a flat tire when those lunatics are around. They overwhelmed a fucking tank, what do you think they're gonna do to a car? And like I just said, we don't wanna draw attention to ourselves."

Amanda folded her arms across her chest and shook her head. "It's too dangerous. There has to be another way."

"I wouldn't have suggested this way if there was another alternative. It'll be fine, Mandy. We just need to make it to the Hills." He gestured at the young man standing at his right. "Franklin thinks that's the safest route out, and I think he's right. It's less populated; just houses, no businesses. This shit started during the day, when most people were out at work, shopping, whatever. If the homeowners have gone nuts, most of them are probably out in the city somewhere. All they wanna do is kill; seems like that's their only purpose now. They ain't gonna return to their homes."

That didn't mean they weren't going to come across any of them in the Vinewood Hills, however. It was just less risky than the rest of city; it was their best way out, probably their _only_ way out.

"Once we make it to the Hills," Michael finished, "we might be able to go the rest of the way by car."

"And if we're able to make it out of the city," Amanda said. "What then? Where do we go?"

"We already went over this. Our best option is Paleto Bay. I don't think these maniacs have moved out of the city, and even if they have, they can't have reached that far north yet. Fort Zancudo is on the way, so we can try it too. Maybe the army turned the base into a safe zone for survivors."

"But we don't know if what happened here also happened in Paleto Bay or at Fort Zancudo," she pointed out. "Or anywhere else in San Andreas, for that matter."

Michael shrugged. "If it ain't safe, then we'll move on. We'll hole up on top of Mount Chiliad if that's what it fucking takes." He checked his watch. "All right, it's half past one, so we need to get a move on if we wanna get out of this nightmare before dark. We are not, and I repeat, _are not_ gonna be caught outside when the sun goes down. It's gonna be dangerous enough in the daylight."

"Man, even if we do," Lamar spoke up from across the debris-laden room, "we can just take over one of them rich motherfucker's mansions for the night. Ain't like they gonna need it."

"Assuming no one's home. And if someone is, they could be armed. This _is_ Los Santos. With all the shit that's happened, the normal people are gonna be on edge and they sure as fuck ain't gonna be trusting."

"You were," Franklin pointed out.

"By circumstance, not by choice. Only time'll tell if that's gonna come back to bite me in the ass."

"Didn't come back to bite yo' ass when we was gettin' them guns. You realize me and Lamar coulda just taken them and left you on that roof to fend for yo'self, right?"

"The chunky nigga got a point, dog," Lamar said.

Michael supposed he did have a point, but that didn't mean they weren't going to fuck him over in the future. He had nothing against the two men; they seemed like okay guys, but he'd be foolish not to carry around a decent amount of suspicion. The situation they all found themselves in was a desperate one, and if there was anything Michael knew from experience it was that desperate conditions gave birth to desperate people, and desperate people do desperate things, even betray the ones they come to trust, fight alongside, and call friends. Sometimes that was the only out you had, the only escape you could see.

* * *

The sun was a hazy globe of fire centered in the sky, veiled by the dark layer of smoke hovering over Los Santos. It made the day seem as if it was cloudy, casting everything in a gloomy, ashen light. The distant bang of gunfire could still be heard from somewhere within the city's bowels and the stubborn, heavy smell of smoke and gasoline still clung to the air. It was abnormally chilly as well for only the second week of November. Los Santos didn't see particularly cold autumns or winters, due in part to the insulating effect of its smog, but this year seemed to be the exception.

Michael thought it was fitting somehow as he stepped down the driveway toward the once gated entry, gripping his firearm of choice, an AK-47. Things were changing, and none of it for the better. And the future now seemed as dark and uncertain as it had before he'd retired from his criminal lifestyle. In that, at least, nothing had changed; his future had always been dark and uncertain.

He lead the group through the open gate and onto the street, his sharp, vigilant eyes inspecting his surroundings, his ears perked for any nearby sounds. Leading was just one of those things that came natural to him. His therapist would've had him believe it was some subconscious need to be in control, one that stemmed back to his abusive childhood. Michael preferred to think of it as a skill. He'd led almost every bank robbery he'd been involved in, and all of them had been successful.

 _Except one_ , he thought. But then that particular job, the last one of his criminal career, was _meant_ to go wrong. _And boy, did it ever._

He shook his head, inwardly rebuking himself for letting his mind wander. He couldn't afford distractions; too much was riding on him.

Portola Drive, the street on which Michael's ruined home sat, was still as deserted and quiet as it had been earlier in the day. It was eerie not hearing the rumble and chatter of vehicular and pedestrian traffic, or seeing the fancy sports cars zoom by and the people strolling the sidewalks, yammering on their cellphones, on their way to Wherever.

He started up the street, cresting the little hill, Tracey at his heels, his son and wife trailing along behind her. Franklin and Lamar brought up the rear, both armed with assault rifles. Chop walked at Lamar's side, sniffing at the ground, his chain lead wrapped around the man's wrist.

As Michael reached the street corner, he held out a hand to hold everyone back as he checked to make sure the cross street was safe, looking right, then left.

Down the road, there was a pile up of dented and smashed up vehicles. Pebbles of glass and the red shards of broken tail lights were littered all over the street. It appeared to be a massive wreck caused by a dark green Washington that had run into a lamp post. The car sat catercorner on the sidewalk, the steel hood pushed up a little from the front end, making a tent-like shape. The back end was smashed in from a truck that had rear-ended it. The lamp post itself was bent almost in half, leaning precariously over the Washington.

Nothing moved or made a sound, so Michael deemed it safe and motioned the others to follow as he started across the street toward Cottage Park, which was Rockford Hills' little green splotch of nature and recreation.

The plan was to cut across the park, then make their way to Ace Jones Drive, which would take them through and out the western edge of the Vinewood Hills to Richman Glen. From there they would head up Banham Canyon Drive, which would eventually take them to the Great Ocean Highway. The GOH was a straight shot to both Fort Zancudo and Paleto Bay. Michael judged if they moved fast enough and didn't run into any trouble they could make the GOH by sundown. The problem was finding a safe place to stay until morning. They would probably have to rely on the little beachside community of Chumash, hope one of the beach houses there was vacant.

As soon as they reached the other side of the street and started to cross the park, Tracey grabbed hold of her father's sleeve and leaned close, speaking in low tones, "We have to stop, Dad. I gotta...you know, use the little girl's room."

It was on the tip of his tongue to ask why she hadn't gone before they left, then he remembered the roof collapse had blocked off the stairs to the second floor, where the bathroom was.

"Just try to hold it, Trace. We've barely gone fifty feet from the house."

"But I gotta go _right now_. There's a bathroom just over there." She pointed to a small white building near the eastern edge of the park and started jogging off that way before Michael could further argue. "I won't take long!"

"Tracey!" he hissed in annoyance as he started after her.

Halfway to the building, he checked back over his shoulder to make sure the others were still close. Then he heard a high-pitched scream and his head whipped back around. His body was moving before he even told it to, rushing across the pristine green lawn as his daughter backed away from one of the opened doors along the side of building, her hands clasped over her mouth.

Then he saw the man in the doorway and the blood covering his snarling mouth, running down his chin, staining the front of his blue and white-striped polo shirt. The bulging veins running beneath his skin. His red eyes; Jesus, those unearthly red eyes.

The man moved from the door, fast, his eerie gaze concentrated on Tracey.

Somewhere far back in Michael's mind he was aware of his daughter and wife screaming. At the forefront it was just him, the assault rifle in his hands, and the bastard that meant to kill and feed on his flesh and blood. His sweet, blonde-haired, darling girl who'd once loved to prance around in her princess dresses. No parenting book ever told you about the danger, how it had the power to fuck with your eyes, to make you see your offspring as children even when they're adults. Those books could never prepare you for the paternal rage that took control of mind, body, and spirit. In that moment, Michael was not a man, a husband, or a retired bank robber in the midst of a midlife crisis. He was only a father.

"Get the fuck away from her!" Time and the world slowed to crawl as the AK in his grip rose, called out, and recoiled, the butt jamming back into his shoulder. He knew it was a good shot before he even squeezed the trigger.

The man fell dead at Tracey's feet, a ribbon of blood streaming down between his wide open eyes from the hole in his forehead.

As the world began to move at speed again, Tracey's voice came to the surface of his mind, her screams loud as an air raid siren.

Franklin's frantic shout accompanied it, "Shit, man, we got company!"

Michael looked around, spotted the small group of five maniacs darting fast across the park from the north, snarling and growling like a pack of wild animals. "Try to hold them off!"

Franklin didn't need telling twice, taking aim and firing off a few rounds from his assault rifle. After pushing Chop's chain leash into Jimmy's hands, Lamar joined his friend, shooting insults at the lunatics for every bullet he shot from his rifle.

Meanwhile, Michael hurriedly ushered his family into the park restroom. "Stay put, keep calm." He didn't wait for a response from anyone, grabbing the door and pulling it shut.

He turned just in time to see one of those maniacs advancing in on Lamar's left while the man was mowing down another with his assault rifle. Michael leveled his AK and fired, the bullets tearing through the lunatic's brain in a little spray of blood. The body crumpled to the ground and Michael hurried across the lawn to the two men, panning his rifle toward the next target.

He was momentarily surprised to see a familiar face. Amanda's tennis coach, garbed in his white polo and matching shorts. He couldn't remember his name, and he'd never liked the guy. The asshole was always giving Amanda those looks, those same looks men had given her back when she used to strip for a living. And she, his loving wife, would bask in them and flirt with the bastard, _right in front of him_. If it had ever gone beyond that, Michael couldn't say for sure, but he was guessing it had. It wouldn't have been the first time she'd strayed. Or the second.

With that in mind, he sneered at the growling, lunatic tennis instructor and squeezed the trigger on his AK, filling his head with lead. " _Die_ , you wife-stealing prick!"

The man's body jerked and toppled to the ground, his life spilling out into the grass.

Michael didn't hesitate, looking around for another maniac to kill, but Franklin took down the last one, a snarling woman in a blue sun dress. When he shot her in the head and she fell, she landed face first in a dead man's crotch. Lamar apparently thought that was hilarious, his laughter rolling across the park.

"Hey, man, we gonna check the street they came from, make sure there ain't more," Franklin said to Michael.

He nodded. "Good idea. I'm gonna check on the wife and kids."

As the two men started off across the park, Michael jogged back to the white building. He announced his presence before he opened the door, not wanting to frighten them more and get shot as a result. When he stepped into the bathroom, he found them standing near one of the opened toilet stalls, Amanda and Jimmy staring into it, their faces grim and pale. His wife had her arms around their daughter, who stood facing away from whatever they were looking at, crying on her mother's shoulder. Even Chop, standing at Jimmy's side, was transfixed by whatever was inside that stall.

Michael's instinct told him something bad was in there.

"What is it? What's wrong?" he asked as he stepped over to them, gripping his AK by its long frame.

They didn't answer. They didn't need to.

When he peered inside the stall, he saw a corpse sitting on the toilet, reclining against the tiled wall. There wasn't much left of the head and the face. In place of the mouth and nose, there was a gory, ragged, gaping hole. An eye hung out of a socket by its red rope of nerve, dangling there against a bloody, shredded cheek. The person's clothes were soaked in red and a shotgun and a black marker lay on the floor of the stall in a congealed pool of blood, along with a few bloody teeth. The pool had been disturbed, likely by the lunatic that had been in here moments ago; a confusion of bloody footprints tracked all over the bathroom floor. A great splatter of blood and brain and skull fragments painted the wall behind the corpse, as did a harrowing message written in black marker with a shaky, hopeless hand:

 _The Believers believed and were called fools. They knew the Truth; they warned us this day would come, but no one listened._ _No one listened_ _. The Government was warned and_ _did nothing_ _. They could've been prepared for this. Now the End is here._

 _Who are the fools now?_


End file.
